It was the weekend, and with no classes to worry about, Tian Xiaohé had stocked up on cola and bitter melon-flavored chips. Settling in front of her computer, she clicked play on Mission Impossible.

Normally, she wasn’t into variety shows, but she had seen a trending post on Weibo earlier saying that Cheng Youran had made a surprise appearance on Mission Impossible. As a devoted fan of Cheng Youran’s stunning looks, she couldn’t pass this up.

Cheng Youran’s visuals were as flawless as ever. Standing next to her was Feng Tiantian, her face as icy as usual. There’s that saying—cuteness pales in comparison to absolute beauty.

In truth, Cheng Youran’s long-time fans had mixed feelings about her appearing on variety shows. On one hand, they wanted more screen time with her; on the other, they feared she might slip up and say something that would get her “publicly executed” online.

As a result, Tian Xiaohé watched the first half of the show with her heart in her throat but then Cheng Youran suggested using Alipay to call a taxi.

Wait, what? You can do that?

The comment section exploded.

[Meanwhile, Brother Meng and the others are stuck busking miserably on the subway. My heart goes out to them.]

[Isn’t this exploiting a loophole? Honestly, it feels kinda off-putting. I prefer people who play fair and don’t cut corners.]

[To the person above—why are you watching a variety show? Go watch a documentary if you want that.]

[+1]

It wasn’t until that moment that Tian Xiaohe finally relaxed. Cheng Youran had grown a lot in the past five years—she’d learned to play to her strengths and avoid pitfalls.

Back in middle school, she’d once watched a variety show where the host asked Cheng Youran, “How many letters are in the English alphabet?”

Cheng Youran’s answer? “Twenty-five.”

Tian Xiaohé had wanted to smash her head against the TV screen—it was that cringeworthy. Even she, a middle schooler, knew there were 27 letters in the alphabet.

But this time felt different. Watching the livestream, it was easy to sense the vibe Cheng Youran gave off—how to put it? She exuded the aura of a high-level player.

Yet, just when you think you’re safe, disaster strikes.

Onscreen, Cheng Youran was frowning at the new task card: Teach English to the kids.

It was over. For the first time, Tian Xiaohé truly felt the downside of a livestream—there was no option to skip through the painfully awkward moments.

….

“Cheng Youran, can you handle this?”

Feng Tiantian ground her teeth as she asked. This task card was supposed to be hers. Having grown up studying abroad, she spoke English in a flawless London accent.

Her agent had even prepped a trending hashtag: Feng Tiantian’s perfect English on display. But Cheng Youran had swooped in and taken the spotlight.

Watching Cheng Youran’s furrowed brow, Feng Tiantian suddenly found the situation less unbearable. A small, malicious grin tugged at her lips as she waited for Cheng Youran to embarrass herself.

“I know a little.”

Cheng Youran replied humbly.

She had once played a niche Star Wars game, which for a time was only available on foreign servers. Without understanding English, it was nearly impossible to play. To recruit new players into their guilds, veteran players organized nightly English lessons, taught by overseas Chinese players.

The key to learning a language was immersion. During that period, she spent her time hanging out with foreign friends from the East Eight Time Zone, and her English had become surprisingly fluent.

The only downside? The game was swarming with Russians, and her accent ended up with a hint of Siberian flavor.

“A little? Really?”

Feng Tiantian had never seen anyone downplay their incompetence so tactfully. If you don’t know English, just admit it—it’s not like it’s shameful. Besides, wouldn’t it be worse to teach the kids something wrong?

She lifted her chin. “Alright then, let me test you on a word.”

Now she’d be scared for sure.

But to Feng Tiantian’s surprise, Cheng Youran responded cheerfully. “Sure, go ahead.”

The comment section lit up with ellipses.

[…..]

[…..I’m speechless. Does she have no self-awareness about her own abilities?]

[66666, Cheng Youran’s about to show off her 25-letters alphabet! Everyone, get ready to screenshot!]

Feng Tiantian initially planned to ask something simple—just enough to show the audience that Cheng Youran couldn’t even manage a basic word.

But as she watched Cheng Youran’s calm and composed expression, she hesitated. What if, against all odds, Cheng Youran actually answered correctly? Wouldn’t she end up embarrassing herself instead?

Her gaze drifted to the knowledge displays along the hallway, which showcased pictures of naval fleets at various stages of development.

“Do you know what the English word for wuwei jian?” Feng Tiantian asked confidently. The moment the words left her mouth, she felt secure in her victory.

Cheng Youran didn’t know English to begin with, let alone a military term like this. There was no way she’d know the answer.

Cheng Youran, however, almost found the situation amusing. The dreadnought happened to be one of her most-used ships in the game. She answered slowly, deliberately:
“Dreadnought.”

For a moment, Feng Tiantian thought she’d misheard. “What did you say?”

“Dreadnought,” Cheng Youran repeated, her tone patient. “Did you catch it this time? Do you want me to give you a quick rundown of its features?”

Cheng Youran couldn’t help but feel she was being overly kind. Even though Feng Tiantian had been giving her the cold shoulder since the day they met, she was still willing to answer her questions with a smile.

—Oh, please, spare me.

As soon as Feng Tiantian realized she hadn’t misheard, she began questioning everything. Who could have predicted Cheng Youran would know such an obscure word? And if Cheng Youran followed through and explained the dreadnought in detail… she might as well dig a hole and crawl into it.

This was practically handing Cheng Youran an opportunity to humiliate her on a silver platter. Once the episode aired, she’d be the laughingstock of the internet.

But before she could react, Cheng Youran had already launched into a thorough explanation:
“The dreadnought revolutionized naval design by eliminating the secondary armament used for offensive purposes on earlier battleships, leaving only small-caliber guns for defense against light warships.”

It wasn’t just Feng Tiantian.

Everyone present was completely stunned. For a moment, even the livestream’s chat fell into an eerie silence—before it erupted with an overwhelming flood of comments.

[Clap, clap, clap. My face hurts from the slap.]

[She must’ve guessed!]

[Yeah? You try ‘guessing’ that right!]

Sitting at her desk, Tian Xiaohe was so shocked that the chip dangling from her mouth dropped to the floor with a loud crunch.

She pulled off headphones and turned to her studious roommate, still in a daze. “Hey, do you know what the English word for wuwei jian is?”

“Uh… Dauntless fleet? Is that it?” Her roommate thought for a moment. “Why?”

“No, it’s a specific technical term,” Tian Xiaohé said, her face unusually serious.

“And?”

“And… I think I’ve just become a fan of a genius idol.” Clutching her cheeks, Tian Xiaohé gazed dreamily at the screen, where Cheng Youran’s expressive face—equally suited for joy or fury—was on full display.

Her roommate: “…” She didn’t understand the logic of a fan’s brain and decided to go back to her calculus problems.

Tian Xiaohé put her headphones back on and continued watching the variety show. Cheng Youran’s performance this time was unexpectedly impressive—she patiently taught the kids English and even shed genuine tears when hearing their heartbreaking stories.

For the first time, the comment section wasn’t mocking Cheng Youran. It was clear her emotions weren’t an act. After all, her acting skills… well, could she even fake it if she tried?

…..

Later, during a bathroom break, Cheng Youran ran into Zhou Huiwen, who was smoking near the restroom door.

In her youth, Zhou Huiwen had been known for her image as the quintessential girl-next-door. But as the years passed, she’d let go of that persona, living with unapologetic freedom and cycling through boyfriends one after another. Yet, there was always an inescapable melancholy about her.

Today, Zhou Huiwen was unusually quiet. From the moment she stepped into the orphanage, it was as if she had wrapped herself in a shell, keeping everyone at arm’s length.

“Crying?”

Zhou Huiwen exhaled a puff of smoke.

“Yeah,” Cheng Youran admitted, nodding slightly. Thankfully, her makeup was waterproof, or she’d have had to fight to keep her tears at bay.

She had only ever heard about orphans in passing before, but seeing them in person, interacting with them face-to-face, made her realize just how deeply abandonment could scar a child.

Children raised in orphanages were different—some became quiet and reserved, while others learned to please every adult they met. Only the youngest ones still retained a glimmer of innocence.

They weren’t as simple or pure as she had imagined before coming here.

It was hard to call them all adorable—but was that their fault? When they came into this world, they were blank slates, too.

“Do you think the parents who abandoned them are to blame?”

Through the haze of smoke, Zhou Huiwen’s face was hard to discern. “I once abandoned a child. A very lovable child.”

Her voice grew softer, as if the words themselves weighed her down. “His hair was naturally wavy, and when he smiled, his eyes curved like crescent moons. He was such a good boy. I was so busy back then, so busy I could only see him once a week. But he still adored me. Every time he saw me, he’d flail his little arms and laugh with such joy…”

Cheng Youran was stunned.

At that moment, she finally understood why Zhou Huiwen had been so uncharacteristically quiet ever since they entered the orphanage. Looking at the children here must have brought back memories of her own child—

The child she had abandoned.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have listened,” Cheng Youran said quietly, her voice tinged with guilt.

Cheng Youran bowed slightly, an apologetic gesture. She had stumbled into Zhou Huiwen’s most vulnerable moment, but this wasn’t something she should have heard. It was Zhou Huiwen’s deepest, most guarded secret.

“You think it’s unforgivable too, don’t you? An unpardonable sin,” Zhou Huiwen murmured.

“But now that I’ve said it, I feel… free.”

Zhou Huiwen suddenly laughed, her voice rough from years of smoking. The sound, paired with her expression, carried an unsettling edge.

Cheng Youran paused mid-step as she turned to leave.

Something felt wrong.

Deeply wrong.

A memory flashed in her mind. In the book, Gu Yao had attended a funeral. It didn’t name names, but it mentioned a famous singer with the surname Zhou who had taken her own life at a concert. Right in front of her fans, she had jumped from a high platform—more than ten meters up.

“Sister Huiwen.” Cheng Youran turned back abruptly. “Can I ask you something? Are you planning to hold a concert soon?”

Zhou Huiwen froze, the cigarette between her fingers. “How do you know?”

=^_^=